


Just Talk

by seenonlyfromadistance



Category: Perry Mason (TV 2020)
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M, episode AU, i guess, two lesbians help two bis get together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25811122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seenonlyfromadistance/pseuds/seenonlyfromadistance
Summary: If Pete leaves now, this is it. They’re not fixed, nothing is better. It’s just sad. If it ends here, it ends forever. It can’t end like this, which means he can’t let Pete leave.Episode 7: what if perry and pete made up immediately and then kissed
Relationships: Della Street/Hazel Prystock, Perry Mason/Pete Strickland
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	Just Talk

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you simply must write 7k words of men awkwardly confronting their feelings!!!! and sometimes you gotta write it twice because you accidentally deleted it once and had to start over from scratch, and then you decide to just call it complete and post it 2 hours before the season finale airs

It’s been a long day. It’s been a long couple of months.

Perry is angry that Seidel disappeared. Perry’s angry that Pete let him go. Perry’s angry that the evidence they need isn’t coming together. Perry’s angry about opening statements gone awry two weeks ago and he’s angry that Emily Dodson believes in the resurrection and he’s angry that some woman threw trash on his nicest suit. He’s angry about a hundred little things that each weigh on him like a ton of bricks. Everyone’s working as hard as they can, as long as they can, every day. Pete just spent three days in Denver. He hasn’t even been home yet, hasn’t changed his shirt or seen his kids. But it doesn’t matter, none of that matters, because the stakes are so high, and Perry is angry. So he yells at Pete, and Pete takes it, and takes it, and then Pete walks away. 

Della and Hazel are in the house, having stopped by for a late night debrief, and probably heard it all. They probably heard Pete quit.  
  
It’s not the loudest fight they’ve ever had, but it’s the most serious. 

Pete steps into the house, just to cut through to get to his car out front so he can storm off properly. The moment he steps inside, he sees Della and Hazel standing in the hallway, blocking his way out, looking at him with pity. They immediately stop their whispering to look at him. It’s too much to face. So he takes a hard turn and steps into Perry’s parents room-- which Perry had never formally declared off limits and so Pete had been using for naps. 

He paces furiously, his heart pounding in his chest and his mind running in circles. Did he really mean it? That he was out? Out for just this case or out forever? And how could he let Seidel slip him like that? That’s the real question. Perry’s right that he fucked it up. Fucked it up badly. He’s supposed to be better than this. _Fuck_. 

But he didn’t expect Perry to take it quite so badly. He’d expected a little sympathy. All he got was shit thrown in his face. He’s tired of eating shit. If Perry’s angry at him, how does he think Pete feels about it? Like he’s not angry enough at himself. He’s taken Perry’s shit for a long time, and these past few months have been more shit than usual. It’s hard to consider though, what it would mean to walk away completely. From the case, from his work. From Perry. He’d expected Perry to stop him, really. But he hadn’t. 

It’s a fucking nightmare. And now he’s trapped in this bedroom. 

Throwing himself down onto the bed in frustration, his back gives a sharp, horrible twinge. 

He’s getting old. He’s washed up. He’s no good at his _fucking_ _job_ anymore. 

He closes his eyes and presses the heels of his hands to the closed lids. The pressure is a welcome relief from a building headache. He doesn’t know what to do. Perry’s sudden change of occupation has thrown everything off kilter. He wants things to go back to how they were, when he and Perry were equals, pals, loitering on corners around town together and breaking into buildings and taking pictures of famous perverts. When Perry would sit across a diner booth from him and listen, smoking cigarette after cigarette, as Pete read romance stories out of the newspaper. Perry used to laugh at the really sappy stuff. 

Standing in the street, realizing that Seidel had slipped him, he had really thought that would be the worst moment of his day. Now look at him.

He hears the door creak open and a pair of feet step in. Light steps, a sharp tap at the heel. One of the girls then. Probably Della come to tell him that it’s okay, that Perry appreciates everything he does, that Perry knows how hard he works. That Perry is mad, but it’ll pass. Like he needs to hear that. Like he doesn’t already know it. Except… after what went down out back, maybe… maybe it wouldn’t hurt to hear it. Just this once. Maybe it would be nice to hear that Perry doesn’t want him to quit. 

When he lifts his hands, his face is wet. And coming into the room isn’t Della, who he wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen by with a wet face, but her friend. Hazel. Who does embarrass him. He wipes his eyes as quickly and subtly as he can. 

“Gloves?”

“I’ve got a name, you know,” she says with a little smile and a little swish of her hips as she comes around to the other side of the bed. She sits and folds her hands over her lap. 

“I forget.” It’s not true, and they both know it. But Pete carefully remained only distantly chummy with Hazel. The nickname helps with that. 

Hazel looks him over. She’s hiding it pretty well, but the pity is still there. When she looks like she’s about to speak, Pete beats her to it. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask, why do you wear those things?” 

Hazel smiles. “I’m a hand model. My hands are my livelihood.” She carefully peels off one glove to reveal the prettiest hand Pete’s ever seen. She playfully waggles her fingers. Perfectly soft, perfectly pink and plump. Her nails are well shaped and perfectly smooth. Her cuticles are cleanly trimmed. Her skin is flawless. Pete gives an appreciative whistle. “And for Della,” she says with a wry, knowing smile, as she pulls the glove back on. “You understand.” 

“I figured.” That she and Ms. Street were lovers? Sure. You don’t get midnight labor from someone who isn’t in love with you. And beyond that, there’s the way they gravitate to each other. The secret language that exists just between the two of them. It’s clear enough if you know how to look. It was maybe a little disappointing to figure, but they were two nice girls and didn’t they deserve their little slice of happiness? Didn’t anyone? 

“I knew you would,” Hazels says with satisfaction, settling back among the pillows. “You and Mr. Mason.” 

“What about me and Mr. Mason?” 

“Well I figured… you two were like us.” 

And ain’t that a kick in the teeth? Ain’t that the simplest way to say it. _Like us_.

What did she think? That they were a whole impromptu law operation comprised of people in love? It’s too saccharine to be allowed.

“You’ve got that wrong,” Pete says. Perry has some of that _like us_ in him, that’s for sure. And Pete’s maybe not as opposed to it as he ought to be. But it’s not… that. He and Perry have been working together and palling around for the better part of a decade. Pete picked him up off the street after the war and Perry talked Pete’s wife into coming back after she walked out on him in ‘28, six months pregnant. They’ve staked out houses for hours together, whispered in back alleys, had breakfasts and lunches and dinners and coffee at midnight in diners that would prefer they leave. Pete has patched up Perry’s scrapes and had his wife sew on Perry’s buttons. Pete was there when Perry’s parents died, one then the other. Perry is more than a coworker and more than a friend. But it’s not… _that_. Pete adds, a little flatly, “I’ve got a wife.”

Hazel rolls onto her side with that same smug, knowing smile. “So? Loads of people have wives, or husbands, and families and houses and the whole thing and they’re still like us. Sometimes you don’t know until you meet the right person. Sometimes you gotta live your life first, to know.” 

She’s so confident, so sure of herself. So comfortable in her skin. That us is starting to sound less like her and Della and more like her and Pete. He can’t, really, imagine a life that Perry isn’t part of. Or he couldn’t yesterday. Everything feels different now, though. Their fight was barely even that dramatic. It just felt like something dying. It just felt like an ending.

“Well, I don’t. I’m not… we’re not… that.” 

“Just friends?” 

“Yeah.”

“Just partners?” 

Pete hesitates. That doesn’t feel like what they are anymore. “Yeah.” 

Hazel grins. “And sometimes you kiss.”

“No.” 

“Maybe you should try it,” she says. “I bet you’d like it.”

“Gloves, come on.” 

She gives a warm smile. “Don’t get mad! It just might relieve some tension.”

“What might?” He asks, and knows he’s basically given an invitation. Hazel knows it too. But he almost wants to know what fantasy Hazel imagines can fix his and Perry’s relationship. What romantic nonsense she’s picturing. 

"If you kissed him,” Hazel says in a conspiratorial whisper. She rolls onto her stomach to look him firmly in the face and say with relish, “If you jumped his bones and forgot about the case and the work for a while. If it was just the two of you, as you are.” 

He almost wants to laugh at her. She might be right on one point though-- Maybe it’s time to call Perry’s pilot friend and she can do the bone jumping. Maybe if she fucked his brains out he’d loosen up a little. 

Though the concept does leave Pete feeling a little cold. 

He’s met the pilot once or twice. Charming enough, but clearly a stone cold bitch. He’d identified that immediately. Maybe Perry likes her meanness, and maybe she can be sweet, but so what? Is good pussy really worth it? Pete can be mean. Isn’t he _sweet_ ? Isn’t he _trustworthy_?

“I’m just saying,” Hazel says to fill the quiet. “I see what I see is all. I’m not a fool.”

“You might be stupid though,” he bites.

Hazel shrugs. “I’ve got eyes, Stricks. You two care about each other. A lot. I think you should do something about it. It’d be good for both of you.”

If she was an annoying little sister, he’d have pushed her off the bed by now. This is getting a little too personal. It’s easier to dismiss the whole thing with a huff. 

“I’ve been real generous with this conversation, Gloves,” he says. “Don’t push it.” 

She shrugs again and bounces up off the bed. _Christ_ , Pete thinks, _to be young like that again_. “I’m just trying to help.” She circles the bed again and as she goes she taps at his feet, hanging off the bed. Accommodating, he moves them onto the bedding. She spends a moment arranging him, moving his feet, shifting his hips for him. “Your back will thank you,” she says with a wink when she’s satisfied.

“Thanks, nurse.”

She lingers for a moment to lay her hand over his. “Just think about it. Get some rest, and think about your wife, and that friend of yours out there, okay?” 

Think about Perry. Right. And his wife. His wife who he hasn’t seen in a week because he’s been too busy with Perry. _Christ_.

\--

Perry Mason watches Pete leave with a sinking feeling in his gut. First, that his case is fucked up. Second, that something has just irreparably broken between them. He shouldn’t have yelled. He’s in charge now, he’s supposed to be better about these things. He’s supposed to be controlled. But it’s hard. When they worked cases together, they were always in sync. Pete always knew exactly what Perry needed, and when, and was often a half step ahead. Now they can’t get it right. They’re off balance. They’re grating at each other. They’ve been biting at each other’s heels since Perry took the bar. 

He expected Pete to yell back at him. He expected they’d work out their frustrations and then move on. It was different this time. How quietly Pete had listened as Perry reamed him out. The look on Pete’s face at the end, utterly resigned. 

_Fuck_.

Meanwhile Della makes it look so easy. Della seems to have no problem being friend and coworker at once. She has no problems taking orders, or giving them. She never yells, except at Perry sometimes. She manages it, and Perry can’t manage to keep his temper under control for a day, or even a minute, when it counts. 

Probably he should just call Paul Drake and bring him in. Pete was probably right on that. He does need the help. He can’t be attorney and investigator at once. But what would it mean to do that? He’s a witness in the case, for god’s sake. Is it even legal? And beyond that, would Drake even want to work with him? And what would it mean for him and Pete, to let him quit? To replace him like that? 

It feels too permanent, too final.

They’ve fought before, about all sorts of things. How has he fixed it before? By pretending it never happened, basically. That won’t work this time. But he can’t just let Pete go. And Pete _did_ fuck up. He fucked it up badly. And then he spent the rest of the day trawling bars and hotels and staking out the church and Seidel’s house and back and forth until the hopelessness of the situation proved itself. He only showed up at Perry’s when it was obvious there was nothing else to do but make a report.

What did he expect? That Pete would come grovelling for his forgiveness? Did he really expect Pete to show up with his hat in his hands?

No. He expected Pete to show up with Seidel in the trunk of his car.

He’s always depended on Pete, and trusted him. Pete taught him everything he knew about this godforsaken job, and Perry counted on him to get it right when it really mattered. When Pete showed up with the crucial information from Denver, Perry had wanted to kiss him silly in that bathroom. He didn’t and next thing you know, they’re as good as breaking up in the dirt behind Perry’s house.

 _Fuck fuck_.

Perry drops to sit on the stone base of his ratty awning support. He’s still angry, but it’s starting to settle into a misery verging on sickness. He can’t get anything right anymore, it seems like. Every step forward comes with two stumbling steps backwards.

The door opens and Della comes out. Her shoes whisper over the stones to him. He looks up at her, feeling pathetic.

“You okay?”

“I’m fucked,” he groans. “Everything’s fucked up. I fucked it up.”

“No,” she says, sitting next to him. There isn’t really room for her, and her hip presses hard against his. “You didn’t. You’re not.”

“Della, come on, it’s… it’s fucked.” 

She looks like she might laugh at him. “Perry, relax. Think of another word.” 

“How am I supposed to do that, Della? Seidel’s gone, didn’t you hear? Pete lost him. So I can’t tie him to Ennis, or the cooked books, or any of it. He’s gone, so I’m fucked.”

Della gives him a pitying smile and her little hand settles on his shoulder. 

“We have good evidence, even without him,” she says softly. “You’re building a great case. Today was good, in court. You were good.” For a quiet moment, she rubs his back and watches him stew. “You know… all of us, me and Pete and Hazel, we’re here to help you. We’re all here for you. Everyone here loves you, Perry.”

It’s almost enough to break his heart. It doesn’t matter how much any of them love him if he fucks this up. He can’t let them down. Not after how hard Della’s fought for Emily Dodson, not after all she’s done. Not after everything she’s trusted Perry with. Bringing Hazel into their little operation wasn’t nothing for her. Pulling Perry aside and explaining exactly who Hazel was to her wasn’t nothing. Taking him by the arm as Pete showed Hazel the phone, the files, the kitchen tap. “I know you joked about being queer only once,” she’d whispered, “and I understand if you _were_ just joking but… I hoped you’d understand.”

And he did understand. He does. Because it wasn’t a joke, and it wasn’t just once. It was him, a part of him he’d fumbled with for years. That she trusted him… It was heavy. Almost too heavy to bear. 

So it doesn’t matter how much he loves them if he can’t get it together. It doesn’t matter how much he loves Della, or how much he loves Pete (so much it hurts, so much that watching him walk away was like a little death) if he can’t win this fucking case. He owes them too much. If he loses this case, he won’t be able to just move on to the next one. No one will ever hire him again and no one will want to associate with him. And they’ll be right. He’ll be a failure, and on top of that, he’ll be homeless. What a fucking joke. 

Della watches this bit of self-flagellation with patience. She puts her hand on his.

She looks him very seriously in the eyes and says, “No one’s going to abandon you, Perry. No matter what.”

“Abandon?” he scoffs, “That’s a little dramatic isn’t it? I don’t… I don’t think that.” Della pulls a face at him and a string in his chest snaps. There’s so much he wants to tell her, so much she could help him with, but he doesn’t know how to start. He buries his face in a palm and groans, “Pete quit.” 

Della nods. So she did hear it. “You know,” she says slowly, “Pete would do anything for you. I would too, but it’s different with Pete. He’s very proud. So are you. Hell, so am I… But you know… he loves you.” Perry makes a choking noise. “I think he loves you in a way he might not entirely understand.” 

Perry lifts his face enough to stare at her. What she’s implying is unbelievable. And it doesn’t matter anyway, does it? “He left. He’s gone.” 

“He’s not. He’s inside, in the bedroom. He’s still here, and you should go talk to him.” 

“What am I supposed to say?” 

“Tell him... how you feel. How you’re feeling. Be honest. Just talk to him… and listen.” Della shrugs and smiles. The pitying look on her face is still there. It’s obvious she knows how hard this will be. _Just talk to him_. Sure. “Don’t talk about the case,” she adds. “Just talk about the two of you.”

“Sure,” he groans. 

“Hazel and I will leave so you can be alone. Just be honest, Perry. He won’t hurt you.”

“How can you know that?” 

She smiles and says, very dry, “Call it a woman’s intuition.” 

“Christ, Della.” Perry runs a hand through his hair. She makes it sound too easy. “How do you do it? How do you and Hazel do it?” 

“One day at a time. Come on.” Still holding his hand, she stands and takes him with her. They cross the dust and step into the house. Hazel is standing by the phone, and she smiles when she sees Della, and that Perry is with her. Della lets him go and peels off with one last glance over her shoulder. _Go on_ , that glance says, _you’ll be fine._ She goes over to Hazel and naturally, easily steps into her personal space. Perry watches as Hazel puts a hand on Della’s elbow and leans in to whisper to her. Della whispers back, her lips almost brushing Hazel’s ear. Then Della takes Hazel's hand and they head towards the door to leave. Hazel blows him a kiss and winks as she goes.

It almost gives him hope. 

And then he’s alone.

Except for Pete in the bedroom behind a closed door.

How long ago was it that Pete walked away from him? Ten minutes? Twenty? It feels like ten years. The house is too quiet. The door to the bedroom feels a mile away. 

\--

Pete has been stewing and steaming, staring at the ceiling, turning over and over _like us_. The ceiling has not been a helpful companion. He should have left right away. Should have pushed past the girls and stormed off when it would have been a storm. Now he’s trapped. There’s still a chance he could slip out and avoid Perry and Della and Hazel… if he’s lucky. All he wants is to make it to his car, so he can leave and go home and lay in the mud under the windmill for a while before having to face his wife and kids and the little life he’d built for himself and had felt pretty decent about until recently.

It’s time to go. Quick before things somehow get worse.

He sits up to leave, his back gives another horrible pained twinge, and there’s a knock on the door all at once. 

“Pete?” Perry’s voice, small and tentative, floats through the door. The door eases open and Perry pokes his head in. He hovers against the frame. “Are you okay?”

Pete grunts. He’s digging his knuckles into his lower back to try and work out the twinge, which allows him to glance at Perry and then look away quickly. 

“Did the girls leave?”

“Yeah.” Perry crosses his arms over his chest, then decides that’s too confrontational and uncrosses them. He ends up with a hand on his hip and the other picking at the paint on the door frame. “Look, Pete… I know you tried your best--”

“And I fucked it up,” Pete snaps, “Right?” 

“Yeah, you did,” Perry snaps back. “You absolutely fucking did.” 

Pete whips his head up and glares. Perry glares right back.

This is going wrong.

“Look… I’m just…” He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. Without the light from outside, the bedroom is dim and cozy. In this warm little cocoon, things feel a little easier. He takes a deep breath and ambles towards the bed. “Can I—“ he gestures to the space next to Pete, and Pete nods and even shifts over a little to make room, so Perry sits. Pete hasn’t made a lot of room, and their legs are nearly touching. That’s the thing with Pete. They have this intimacy. Perry stares at his knees for a moment, trying to figure out how to start. _Just talk to him_ , Della had said. Just tell him how you’re feeling. “Look I know I’ve… been… short and... demanding. I’m just… I’m on edge, here. There's a lot of pressure... The case and this fucking resurrectionist thing and--” He stops short. “Lupe bought my house.”

“What?”

Perry ducks his head. “I hadn’t paid my property taxes in a while, so…” Pete _tsks_ through his teeth. He’s just barely kept his own little house paid for these past few years, and Perry knows it. “So it went up for auction and she bought it. Two weeks ago.”

“Shit.”

"She just told me tonight.” 

Pete nods. “So that’s where you were coming from.” 

“Yeah.” It had already been a shitty night before coming back to find Pete pacing around the house, decidedly not tailing Eric Seidel. He’d been pretty raw to start with and it had just gotten worse from there.

“One more betrayal just pushed you over the edge, huh?”

“Hey,” Perry bites. Pete doesn’t get to play the victim here, not like that. “Don’t-- you didn’t... You didn’t do that. That’s not fair.”

Pete shrugs. He chews on the inside of his cheek. 

Perry says, “I was pretty sore. I still am, to be honest.” 

“You’re right, I fucked it up,” Pete says abruptly. His eyes stay looking out at nothing. Definitely not at Perry. His jaw tightens and shifts. He sighs and softens. His good posture crumbles. “I tried, Perry, I really did. I swear to god I did. I tried to grab him when I saw he’d spotted me but I was too far back, and— I’m no good anymore, and I fucked it up.” All he’s done all day is think of the ways he should have done it differently. Tried to grab Seidel earlier, hung a little further back to begin with and get a little closer when it mattered. If only he hadn’t lingered outside the bank, if only he’d crossed the street earlier, or tried to cut around the parade a different way. If only, if only--

“Pete, no, you are good at this, you are. Come on—“

“No, I’m not.” Perry tries to interject but Pete cuts him off. “It’s true. I can’t tail anymore.” His voice has gone tight and pinched. “That’s half the job and I keep getting caught out. You can’t say that’s good.” 

“It was only once,” Perry demures. Don’t talk about the case, Della had said. Now he can’t figure out a way to get off the case.

“Twice,” Pete snaps. “Don’t be nice about it. Twice. If it had just been that cop, maybe we could forgive that. But to get spotted by some fucking accountant? That’s pathetic.” 

He’s right, is the part that stings. It’s not good. Pete _is_ good, though, is the thing. His work in Denver was good, so good, and it’s going to be vital. It’s the link that brings it all together, the link between the church and the kidnapping, and if they had Seidel to testify to it under oath... Maybe, Perry thinks, he pushed too hard, or asked too much, or— Della’s voice comes back to him. _Pete would do anything for you._ Pete went to Denver for him, Pete found him exactly what he needed. Pete trailed Seidel on Easter weekend. Pete worked without pay for two weeks. Pete wouldn’t buy his house out from under him. 

Pete leans forward, one arm on his knee. He twists to look at Perry. It’s a good look on Pete, and he’s always doing this. Tilting himself at sharp angles when he’s thinking, tying himself in knots. He produces a tight, unhappy smile.

Seeing Perry standing up in court, clean shaven and confident and glowing with success, filled his heart with a bright, warm affection. He not only almost looked like a lawyer up there, he looked like he was born to be a lawyer. Like his entire time as a PI, his time with Pete, was just a precursor to this greater, better vocation.

He thinks: _Perry was always meant to leave me behind._

“I should step away, anyway.” He says, as casual as his tight voice and gritted jaw will allow. His eyes are wet like… like he might start to cry. “I’ve lost my touch. On this case, anyway. I’m not helping.” His breath skips, and he takes a moment before continuing. “I’m holding you back, Mason. Maybe I have been for a long time.” 

It’s hard to watch Pete declare his own obsolescence with a smile on his face. It’s painful. He takes a quavering breath. “Call up Drake. He’s got good instincts, he’s smart. He’ll be good. And if you can drag him out of the force, all the better.” 

“Pete…” 

“You know,” Pete starts. Perry gets a bad feeling that some kind of final declaration is coming, and then it does. “You really did look like a lawyer up there. I’m glad I got to see it.” He nods to himself, his jaw clenched. He looks away. The wetness in his eyes is becoming unbearable. “I’m proud of you, Mason. You’re making good.” 

He goes to stand, and Perry feels his stomach drop. Pete pats his pockets, checking for his keys, his hat, jammed in the pocket of his coat. He looks so tired. If Pete leaves now, this is it. They’re not fixed, nothing is better. It’s just sad. If it ends here, it ends forever. It can’t end like this, which means he can’t let Pete leave.

He as good as lunges at Pete to catch him by the arm before he can move beyond the edge of the bed.

“Pete, wait,” he gasps. “Please don’t go. Just… just sit back down… for a second.”

Shocked maybe, or numb, Pete does as he’s told. Perry keeps hold on his wrist with both hands, to be sure of him.

“Hold on a minute... Please, Pete. You are good, you’re the best and--” Pete pulls a face and Perry forces himself onward. “Look, I can’t do this… I can’t— I need you. I need your help. I need to be able to talk to you. I need you around.” He loosens his claws and settles his hands over Pete’s, resting on his knee. Pete looks at it like the hand doesn’t belong to him. “I’ll be better, I promise. I’m sorry. Just don’t go.” 

Pete sits there, very still. His mustaches twists into a hard frown. 

“I can’t… work this anymore. It’s not working.” 

It’s so shockingly obtuse that Perry can’t speak for a moment. His mind spins in neutral, then explodes.

“Fuck, Pete! I’m not talking about the fucking case!” 

“What then?” 

Perry’s hands tighten around Pete’s even more, holding tight enough that it must hurt. “I’m talking— Christ, I’m... I’m talking about us.”

There’s that fucking word again. _Us_. _Us us us._ The word Pete doesn’t know what to do with. The word he’d been turning over in his head for ten minutes. 

Pete’s stillness has settled to stone. He’s barely breathing. “What about us?” 

“I mean... Look,” he says, trying to figure out how to start. Be honest, Della had said. Tell him how you feel. “Look… I’m scared, okay? I’m petrified. I don’t know how to do this, any of this. My whole life has been in this house and… I’m scared to lose it. I don’t know how to be a lawyer, I'm scared to lose the case, I don’t know-- And I can’t…” he swallows hard, looking at Pete’s hand, crushed under his own. “I can’t lose you too. I— I need you. I do. Not the case or the investigation, forget about that… I do. Me.”

“What are you saying, Perry?” Pete grits through grinding teeth.

“I’m saying… I have fucked up so much in life and I don’t want to fuck this up too. I… I do like it when you read to me. I like when you light my cigarettes and how close you stand. I’m saying… If you don’t want to work with me anymore, I understand. But please don’t leave. I can’t do this without you, any of it. You’re…” He almost says, _you’re my best friend_ , but it feels wrong. Cheap. Incomplete. “I’m saying…” 

Perry lifts Pete’s hand in his and presses his lips to his knuckles. “I’m trying to say: Don’t go.” He kisses Pete’s knuckles again, then his fingers, the back of his hand. Pete’s hand is trembling, just slightly, in Perry’s hold. Perry puts his forehead to Pete’s hand and breathes.

He doesn’t know if he said it all right. It’s hard to say and the words aren’t easy. 

Perry lifts his eyes. Then Pete takes his hand away. The wetness in his eyes is back. He looks furious, his whole face crumpled up, and Perry’s stomach drops. He’s made a mistake. He’s made a wrong move. _Fuck_. He thought there was no making it worse, but he’s done it. 

“What did Della say to you?” Pete forces through his teeth.

“What?” 

“You two had a… a chat out back? Or something? What did she say?” 

Where this is coming from is totally unclear. Perry gapes, his mouth hanging open. 

“She told me to come talk to you. So--” He gestures around him. _Here I am_.

“Don’t bullshit me, Mason,” Pete says. His voice is starting to waver. His trembling has gone body wide. “What did she tell you?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Perry retreats, bringing his hands up by his shoulders. “What’s going on here?” 

“Della and her little girlfriend-- She must’ve--” 

And then Perry realizes that the look on his face isn’t anger. It’s fear. 

He’s scared. He’s scared like Perry is. He’s scared in a way he might not totally understand, or that he might understand exactly well enough. 

“Oh, Pete,” Perry sighs as he takes him by the arms. Even as Pete stiffens up, Perry pulls him close and kisses him hard on the mouth. Pete doesn’t move. So Perry kisses him again, softer. He puts his hands on the sides of Pete’s face and traces a cheekbone with his thumb. He kisses him once more, for good measure. “Hey,” he says as he pulls away just slightly. Pete’s face is contorted into a grimace. His eyes are screwed shut. “Pete, look at me.” 

Very carefully, Pete does as he’s told. He pries his eyes open one at a time. _What’s that expression_ , Perry wonders. Terror, maybe. Shame. Hard to say. It’s an awful lot at once, anyway. Perry watches him with thoughtful concentration.

“It’s okay,” Perry whispers. Eyes open, he kisses Pete again. “It really is. I promise.” He tries to smile. “What did Hazel say to _you_?”

With a shaky breath, not quite a laugh, Pete’s shoulders start to relax. He shakes his head, a little wobble that Perry can barely see because they’re so close. “It doesn’t matter.” Perry feels Pete’s hands start to creep up his stomach, over his chest. “She was right,” he mumbles. He stiffly tilts his head, an invitation to be kissed. Perry obliges. This time Pete meets him halfway. He kisses with shaking lips and a tentativeness that Perry never would have expected from him. In Perry’s vague imaginings, he never thought he’d have to lead the way with Pete. Now, Pete’s hands in Perry’s lapels crush the fabric. He’s nervous. 

Perry asks, even as he lets himself wander to kiss at Pete’s jawline, his cheeks, the side of his nose, “Is this okay?” 

Pete lifts an eyebrow. The corners of his mouth twitch up. "Yeah."

“Okay.” Perry very slowly starts to loosen Pete’s tie, to unbutton his collar, keeping his lips close to Pete’s skin. “How about this?” 

“Oh—“ Perry gets his fingers under Pete’s collar and feels at his pulse. It’s fast. The tie comes loose and Perry pulls it away, leaving it to fall where it likes. “Jesus Christ, Mason.” 

Perry smiles. Carefully he pushes Pete’s jacket off his shoulders, then pauses to take off his own. Pete looks a little flushed, sitting there, waiting with his hand on Perry’s shirt collar while Perry wrestles with his jacket. He looks, Perry thinks, like a schoolboy needing to be told what to do. Perry comes back carefully, starting with a hand on Pete’s thigh, another on his throat. 

“Pete,” he sighs against Pete’s pulse. Pressing his tongue to that very same pulse, he’s rewarded with a hitch in Pete’s breath and a hand in his hair. 

“Perry,” Pete breathes, low and thick. “I don’t… I mean, are you sure?” 

And what could he mean by that?

“Sure about what?” he says to Pete’s collar bone, exposed by a pushed-aside shirt. 

“Me.” 

Perry retreats at that. He has to look at Pete’s face, has to try and see what he’s feeling. Never has his voice sounded so small. This isn’t the Pete Strickland he knows, this tentative, worried, unsure man in front of him. But the Pete Strickland who is nervous to fuck someone maybe isn’t a Pete Strickland that Perry has met before. 

So Perry sits up to look at Pete. It's a familiar expression, actually. He wore it on the porch not an hour ago. It’s an expression of stoic resignation. Like Perry will look at him and declare him inadequate, and he’s already accepted that.

“Pete,” he says. “Of course. Pete, it’s… it’s you.” 

Pete’s mouth purses. 

“Stop worrying about it,” Perry tells him, even as he’s loosening another button on his shirt. “Pete, it’s me.” 

It’s Perry, of course. Hangdog, grumpy, earnest Perry. 

This time Pete kisses him, which is a beautiful shock to his system. He’s got a hand in Perry’s hair, and the other works at Perry’s tie. 

It only takes a little force to lay Pete back on the bed, where Perry undoes him button by button. 

Perry peruses a shoulder after divesting Pete of his shirt. He makes a catalogue with his mouth— Pete’s throat, Pete’s collarbones. Peeling off Pete’s undershirt adds to the list— Pete’s chest, Pete’s ribs, Pete’s belly. The patch of chest hair. The faded scar from the war. While Perry is mouthing at Pete’s sharp hip bones, Pete digs fingers into Perry’s shoulder. He starts to undo Pete’s belt before Pete pulls him up by his shirt. 

“Get this off,” he hisses, attacking Perry’s shirt buttons. Perry kisses him with all he’s worth, breaking only when Pete claws his undershirt off his back. This is more what he expected. 

Once his shirt is off, Pete gives him a quick glance over. He’s seen Perry change shirts before, this isn’t new, except--

“What the fuck is this?” He points to the burn scar on his chest from New Years. It hasn’t faded like he’d hoped. It takes some effort for Perry to see it well himself. It doesn’t seem that important any more. He hasn’t thought about it since it stopped hurting.

“Those movie execs who skimped us that six hundred bucks, you remember that?” Pete looks up at him, one eyebrow almost comically arched. “They weren’t very happy with how I handled that, so…” 

Pete lingers over the burn, tracing the crater edges with his fingers. Perry’s chest hair around it hasn’t quite grown back in yet.

“I was there. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

This is not what Perry had expected to talk about while perched over Pete in bed. He hadn’t exactly expected talking at all, really.

“You were pissed off,” Perry says with a shrug. He goes back to pressing kisses to Pete’s throat, his chest. 

“Don’t do it again,” Pete says with a hitch in his breath. Meaning, don’t keep secrets. Don’t hide things from me. “I woulda destroyed those guys.” Meaning, I’ll protect you. I’ll fight for you.

“I know,” Perry mumbles against Pete’s ribs. 

“I would.” Pete has picked up the pieces of his mistakes a hundred times, and he’ll do it again, without fail. He’s gotten beaten up and limped home, and carried Perry with him. Perry has rarely thanked him, almost never made it up. And Pete is still here. Which means something. 

At his belt again, Perry says, “I know.”

—

Pete drowses for a while, drifting in and out, laying on his stomach. His hair looks dark in the dim light of one lamp on a far off dresser. Dark like it was when Perry first met him. Rumpled now, and a little sweaty. His shoulder blades are sharp on his back, sprinkled with faded freckles. 

Perry slips out to grab a bottle of whiskey and a glass, being careful not to be too disruptive as he slips back into bed. Pete opens one eye as he does nevertheless. “Want some?”

Pete shrugs. Sitting up seems like too much trouble. 

“What’re we doing here, Mason?”

Perry pours some whiskey into the glass and swishes it around. He knows what Pete’s asking.

“I don’t know what to call it.” He takes a sip, then another. It’s a pleasant burn. All he knows is that he likes where they are and want to do more of it. “Does it matter?” 

“I guess not.” Pete rubs at his face a little. “I think you gave me rug burn here.” 

“Sorry.”

He blinks slowly. “It’s funny, is all.” His mustache twitches, and like he’s been reminded of it, he asks, “The mustache doesn’t bother you?”

“I like it,” Perry admits. “It’s different, you know… with men. But… it’s good.” 

“Yeah.” Quiet falls again and Pete picks thoughtlessly at the waistband of Perry’s under shorts. He’s working through some other thought, and Perry lets him. He loves this-- seeing Pete think. Watching him work through it in his twisted up mouth and jutted out jaw.

Eventually he gets to it: “What about your pilot?” He still hasn’t bothered to lift his face from the pillow.

“Fuck her. What about her?” Time for more whiskey, Perry pours a slosh into his glass. He loses a splash onto his stomach and Pete, cozy as can be, swipes the better part of it up with a finger.

“Isn’t she your girlfriend or something?”

Perry chokes down a bitter laugh. “Pete, she bought my fucking house out from under me. She’s not my girlfriend.” 

He has the good sense not to bring up Pete’s wife. 

“What are you gonna do about the house?”

“Move out, I guess,” Perry says. He’s never slept in his parents room, not as an adult anyway. First time for everything before it all goes away. Pete turns his body. The light catches his eyes and turns them crystal blue.

“I’ll put you up, if you need.” 

It’s an offer Perry won’t accept, when it comes down to it. He appreciates it, of course, but Pete’s house has three kids in it. One more person is too many. It would be unfair. But it’s a nice gesture. “Thanks, Pete.” 

“You gotta get one of those offices with the apartment in the back.” He grins, picturing it. Surely he’s spinning all kinds of dramatic ideas in his head. He’s probably imagining that all Perry’s cases will be like the dime detective novels he reads, even though he should know better. Perry, for his part, prays most of them aren’t like that. This first one has been dramatic enough. Not quite teasing, Pete says, “Perry Mason, Attorney-at-Law. Femme fatales inquire at rear.”

Perry laughs. “Shut the fuck up.”

“You’re gonna call Drake?”

It feels like it should be a sore subject, but Pete doesn’t seem sore about it at all. Maybe sleeping together finished their professional relationship. Replaced it, so there's nothing to be sore about. Perry takes a moment while he shifts to lie down. Balancing his glass on his chest, he weighs it, then shrugs, then nods. 

“Good. Call him now.”

“Pete, it’s the middle of the night. I’ll call him in the morning.” It’s time to put the whiskey away and turn the light out, if only the light weren’t across the room. So the light will burn for now. Let it. Perry’s not going to pay the electric bill anyway.

Satisfied, Pete closes his eyes. Blindly, he reaches for Perry and lands on his chest. His hand is a comfortable weight over Perry’s heart. 

“So you’re staying?” It feels stupid to ask, but Perry can’t help himself. It’s Pete, and he needs to be sure. Staying for now, staying for good. 

“I was planning on it. You ask me to stay, I’ll stay.” 

“Please stay.”

Pete as good as waggles his eyebrows. He smiles.

“Go to sleep, Mason. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And he is.

**Author's Note:**

> I truly do not know how to describe the things Shea Whigham does with his jaw, but let me just say.... it hot.


End file.
